


Irresistible

by everytimeyougo



Category: The Good Fight (TV)
Genre: F/M, IT WAS HIS BARN, firearms flirtation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 18:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11538108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everytimeyougo/pseuds/everytimeyougo
Summary: She can already feel his hands on her from the other side of the room. Mchart drabbles





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through my Tumblr prompts to see what I had started and what I hadn't, and found this one. I *think* I already posted on Tumblr, but not here. It's not really long enough to stand alone so this might become my random TGF drabble story, similar to Patchwork under TGW fandom. Don't take the 1/? to mean this particular story will be continued, but I might add other short bits of nonsense. I'm sure the summary will work for anything with these two :D

The gun weighs heavily in her hands, pulling at her shoulders in a way that is no longer entirely comfortable. She bites her lip and forces her arms back up into position, triceps contracting under her ivory silk blouse. Once upon a time, he had spent hours teaching her proper form, making minute adjustment after minute adjustment to her grip, her arms, the set of her hips. She’ll be damned if she’ll let him see what it costs her to hold it now.

She can already feel his hands on her from the other side of the room.

Pushing off the rough barn wall, he slowly saunters in her direction. No one but she would ever recognise the amused curve of his lip hiding under the camouflage of his moustache. She’s not fooling him; she knows she’s not.

Her arms demand respite as soon as he passes, and the gun slowly descends until all it threatens is the floor at her feet. Several seconds pass before she senses him again, this time close behind her. A moment later a pair of earmuffs slides down over her head, followed by safety glasses over her eyes. He remains out of sight, and if he speaks, she can no longer hear him. Most likely, he doesn’t. His hands tell her everything he wants to say.

A light tap to her elbow and she raises the gun again. A nudge of his knee against the back of hers tells her to widen her stance. His palm, warm against the middle of her back reminds her to pull back her shoulders. Her form is perfect. She knows it; he knows it. But he continues his corrections with a light touch here, a firmer one there, until she’s nearly breathless, anticipating the moment he will finally permit her to pull the trigger.

After what seems like an age, he steps away and she shivers from the sudden loss of warmth at her back. When he reappears in her peripheral vision a moment later, he has donned his own eye and ear protection. She watches him steadily, fighting against her own nearly irresistible impulse to fire.

At last he nods.

She returns the gesture, then faces forward. Taking a few deep, calming breaths, she clears her mind of all extraneous thoughts and focuses only on her aim, looking down the barrel to the target, until her surroundings fade from her awareness. Almost without conscious thought, she inhales one final time, then eases the trigger back in one smooth, unbroken motion.

The gun barks and she tenses automatically, anticipating and controlling for the recoil, before finally relaxing and letting her arms fall to her sides, exhaling heavily. Ten yards away, the target is now decorated by a small hole just two rings out from the centre. Her entire body tingles in satisfaction.

“Not bad,” he tells her, as they both remove their gear.

It’s high praise indeed, coming from him, and deservedly so. She knows she did well, appreciates the admiration in his eyes that is for so much more than her marksmanship.

She shrugs, playing it off. “I’m rusty, but it felt good.”

“It looked good. _You_ looked good.” He steps closer, fingers ghosting against hers before taking the revolver from her hand.

“Are we done?” she asks in surprise. In the past, this game would go on for awhile longer before they moved on to other, similarly explosive, activities.

“Not if you don’t want to be,” he replies with a crooked grin, “But I didn’t try it out before I gave it to you. Thought I’d take it for a spin.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want to play with my toy?”

He doesn’t answer, not with words, but the smouldering look he gives her almost melts her into the floor. She holds on to her composure, just barely, as out of practice in dealing with these kinds of impulses as she is with handling firearms. There is no doubt in her mind which deficiency is more dangerous.

“Okay,” she says, her voice dropping low, “You can fire it. All I ask is that you let me watch. You know how I enjoy that.”

The air between them crackles with electricity. She almost forgets to breathe. He nods abruptly and walks over to stand in front of the target.

She waits until he’s replaced his protective equipment, then approaches him from an angle where she knows she’ll be seen, walking slowly, deliberately, then coming to a stop just behind him. Once there, she imitates his earlier motions, playing at positioning his body to her liking.

“I thought you were just going to watch,” he says, but she ignores him, hands sliding over his soft cotton shirt and the hard muscles of his back underneath. She’s doing nothing to help his shooting stance, but of course, that’s not the goal here. Her hands slide around to his chest, one finger slipping between two buttons.

Eventually, satisfied he’s ready in some manner or another, she backs away and takes his spot against the wall where he can see she’s safely out of the way. Donning her safety equipment, she licks her lips, then nods for him to continue.

He extends his arms and his feet shift, squaring up his hips. In the pause that follows, his jaw tenses, and she imagines him forcing all thoughts of her touch from his mind, much as she had done earlier. Then, in a motion so smooth it appears to have happened spontaneously, the trigger slides back.

If she had hoped her touch would unbalance him enough to throw off his aim, she would have been disappointed. His shot pierces the target dead centre. She shivers when he removes his glasses and looks to her.

“Your turn,” he says roughly, rotating the gun to offer her the handle.

She walks over to accept it, but sets it down on the workbench. “No. I think that’s enough shooting for today.” She reaches for his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Diane purses her lips and holds down the backspace key, erasing all her work of the last thirty minutes in a fit of impulsive frustration. It’s a ridiculous case anyway; she never should have agreed to handle it personally, friend of Adrian’s or not. Maybe the stars will align and the judge will be ill tomorrow and they’ll get a continuance until after the holidays. She snorts audibly at the thought. She is just not that lucky. **  
**

Lifting her eyes from the keyboard, she glances up to find the office beyond her glass walls is as dark as night, save for the faint sparkle of Christmas lights coming from the reception area. As well it should be, she supposes, at nearly midnight. Easing up on the little plastic key, she slows the destruction, then brings it to a stop, sighing loudly at her lack of progress.

“Something wrong?” a familiar voice asks, and she jumps a foot in her chair as, from out of the gloom, her husband appears in her doorway.

“Kurt!” she exclaims, smiling with surprised delight, then glancing at her watch in case she had mistaken the late hour. “What on earth are you doing here? How was your trip?” He had been gone the past week, visiting his sister out of state. She hadn’t expected to see him until tomorrow night.

His lip quirks upward, amused. “Looking for you. Obviously. Went by the house first.”

She bites down on a smile of her own. "Well I suppose you weren’t likely to be looking for representation at this hour. You should have called though.”

He chuckles. “If I had, what would you have said?”

Her eyebrows knit together for a moment, then she shrugs. “Point taken.” She would have told him she had hours of work ahead of her, and he should just go home. He knows her too well.

“I’m hoping,” he adds, venturing further into the office, “that I’m a little harder to refuse in person.” He smiles, then glances away, as if afraid such hope may be just a little too much. Things have been good with them lately, but she knows he hasn’t quite been able to shake the worry of it all coming to an abrupt and final end.

"You are,” she says, grinning reassuringly. "I missed you, and I’d like nothing more than to leave with you right now, but…” she screws up her face in annoyance,  “I do still have work to finish.”

He shrugs and ambles over to the sofa in the corner of her office. “S'okay. I’ll wait.” As she watches silently, he sits, opening the newspaper lying untouched on her coffee table, and leans over, elbows resting on his knees, to read.

Unseen by him, she imitates his shrug, then returns to her summation, retyping a variation of what she just deleted, inspired now to efficiency rather than perfection.

After a few minutes, Kurt straightens up and shrugs out of his heavy winter coat, tossing it on the couch beside him, before unbuttoning the cuffs of his plaid shirt and folding his sleeves up to his forearms.

“Too warm?” Diane asks.

He grunts in the affirmative, not looking up from the paper. She should return to her own work, she should, but now that she’s looked up, she’s entranced by the picture he makes. The soft yellow light of the lamp beside him acts like a spotlight on him in the otherwise dark corner.

He’s a beautiful man, her husband, with his thick silver hair and warm hazel eyes. He steals her breath sometimes, still, after all these years. She loves the fine lines around his eyes, the roughness of his beard, the strength in his forearms currently bathed in golden light not ten feet from where she sits.

The hell with it. She saves her document and stands. She’s beside him before he notices.

“Ready?” he asks, pausing with his page half-turned.

“Yes,” she says, pulling the newspaper away from him, folding it haphazardly and then tossing it aside. She’s ready, ready to put all his lingering worries to rest.

His eyes narrow in confusion as she nudges his knee until he slides over to make room for her on the couch. “What? Don’t you want to go home?”

“In a minute.” She lifts her hands to frame his face, fingers tracing the faint dots of coloured light that are reflections of the distant christmas lights. He truly is a gift, the only one she’ll ever want.

“I love you, you know.” she says, dragging her thumbs over his rough cheeks.

“I love you too,” he says, and she smiles, about to lean in when suddenly he snorts and pulls back.

As she watches in consternation, he reaches into his shirt pocket, pulling out a tiny sprig of greenery. Mistletoe. “Stole a piece from reception,” he confesses.

“We have mistletoe in our reception area?” she asks, laughing. HR will not be pleased.

“A little less now.” He twirls it around in his fingers, then lifts it above his head with a lopsided sheepish grin.

She doesn’t need any further invitation, sliding closer to him and returning her hands to his cheeks, pulling him to her and pressing their lips together. He isn’t long in dropping the hand holding the mistletoe to wrap it around her, teasing her lips open with his.

“Mmm,” she sighs after a few minutes, pulling back but leaving one hand on his cheek. “Let’s go home. And remind me to grab the rest of that mistletoe on our way out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!


End file.
